Angel in Scarlet (7 page)

Chapter Three

It was a warm spring afternoon and the village was peaceful and placid, too peaceful, too placid. At fifteen I had an inordinate thirst for high drama and excitement, something completely missing in my life. There had been no real drama since that day I had scrambled over the wall at Greystone Hall, and that had been three years ago. It seemed even longer. The feisty, rambunctious child had vanished, transformed into an awkward, too-tall fifteen-year-old subject to all the moods and contradictions of that age, silly as a goose one moment, silent and wistful the next. I hated being fifteen, hated it sorely. When
she
was fifteen Solonge was already a woman, mature and alluring. Me, I was like a gawky, skittish colt.

Eppie Dawson and I sauntered idly down High Street, warm sunshine washing the old brown cobbles and the rows of weathered tan shopfronts. Painted signs hung over the doorways, colors faded with age. Through the bakery window we could see the baker kneading his dough, a heavenly smell wafting out onto the pavement, and up ahead the knife sharpener was turning his stone, sparks flying as he honed the blade of a knife. A little boy with flaxen hair was playing with a dog across the street, tossing a stick the mutt fetched with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, and a few village women were shopping, faces grim as they examined the bins of vegetables in front of the greengrocer's. Eppie kept an eye out for boys, but nary a husky lad appeared. I paused to look at the books in the window at Blackwood's but saw nothing of interest. I wanted splendor, spectacle, sensation, anything to relieve the tedious monotony that seemed to mark each day.

“I was hopin' Will Peterson might be hangin' around,” Eppie said. “He lounges about the square sometimes when he idn't busy at his father's farm.”

“Will Peterson's a dolt,” I informed her.

“Oh, Will's all right. He's randy, always thinkin' about tail, true, but he's got a lot of charm.”

“And a vocabulary of approximately twelve words,” I added.

Eppie gave me an exasperated look and clicked her tongue, looking more than ever like a giraffe with her straw-colored hair piled up on top of her head, her enormous brown eyes, her long neck and tall, angular body. Eppie was a bore at times, but we'd been friends most of our lives and she was the only person I could really talk to. Eppie was a simple girl who never had a serious thought in her head, never worried or wondered about life, perfectly satisfied with her lot. Give her a shiny new hair ribbon and a rousing tryst with a muscular oaf like Will Peterson and she was blissfully content. Sometimes I almost envied her.

“You know what your problem is, Angie? Your problem is you need to get laid.
That
'd cure you of what ails you quick enough, I promise-ya.”

“Bull,” I said.

“It's ever so excitin', Angie, and much better than any silly tonic you might take. Can't tell you how wonderful it makes you feel—warm and cozy all over, like you're glowin' inside.”

“I'm not interested,” I told her.

“All the boys find you fascinatin',” Eppie continued. “They're always askin' me about you, askin' why you're so aloof and distant. Will Peterson said he'd love to ask you out, said he was scared to, scared you'd give him one of your cool, haughty looks and freeze his balls off.”

“Someone should,” I said.

“I often think you really
are
a snob, Angie,” she replied. “The boys all say so.”

“I haven't the faintest interest in what the boys say.”

“Bosh! You're interested all right, you just won't admit it. They're certainly interested in
you.
”

I sighed, bored, and Eppie gave me another one of her exasperated looks and told me that if I wanted to spend all my life moonin' around and readin' dreary books and bein' a tragic princess that was fine with her,
she
intended to have a good time before she got too old. I pinched her. She pinched me back. We both burst into titters of laughter then, and Eppie grinned and said I was still her friend even if I
was
a snob. We sauntered on down the street, full skirts swaying.

Eppie's dress was faded pink cotton, mine pale lavender with a ruffled white cotton petticoat beneath. My low-healed soft black leather shoes were scuffed, and I wore no stockings. Hated stockings. Still hated shoes, too, for that matter, but I always wore them now, however reluctantly. My dress was old, the hem too short, revealing my ankles, and it was too tight at the waist, too tight across the bosom, too. That bosom was the bane of my existence, my breasts full and round and, to my way of thinking, much too large. The low cut bodice left a goodly amount of them exposed. It wouldn't be so bad if the
rest
of me was rounded, but I was skinny as a rail everywhere else and felt like a freak.

“Don't you ever
think
about doin' it?” Eppie inquired as we approached the square.

“Never,” I lied.

“That ain't even
natural
,” she protested.

“I've more elevating things to think about,” I said airily.

“Bosh! You're lyin' through your teeth, Angie Howard. I'll bet you do think about it, too. I'll bet when you're alone in bed at night you think about it a lot. Every girl does.”

“Not me.”

“Liar!”

“I don't happen to be obsessed with boys like
some
people I could name. There's more to life than—than wrestling with a sweaty lout in a haystack, letting him kiss you, letting him in
vade
you.”

“Maybe so,” Eppie retorted, “but I can't think of anything more
plea
sant.”

I had to smile at that. Eppie giggled, pleased with herself as we sat down on the bench in the square. Sunlight brushed the pale green grass and gleamed on the old bronze cannon that had been here since Cromwell's time. Eppie spread out her pink skirts and gazed down High Street, still hoping to see a pair of shapely masculine shoulders appear. The sky was a pale, pale blue, cloudless. The apple tree at the edge of the square was abloom with fragile blossoms that filled the air with fragrant perfume. I felt I was in some strange kind of limbo, suspended, waiting for something to happen. I felt that way most of the time these days.

“Not much goin' on in the village,” Eppie said. “I wish it were market day. Things'd be hummin' then for sure.”

I didn't answer. I watched a robin hopping on the ground, looking for a worm. It finally flew up to perch on the cannon, its throat vibrating as it warbled a song. A bell tolled in the steeple of the old church beyond the square. The robin flew away, and a few minutes later a rowdy group of boys poured out of the school, laughing, shouting, larking about with boisterous glee. They filled the sleepy village with vitality for a short while, then dispersed, going their separate ways. The village seemed quieter than ever after the brief explosion of youthful exuberance. Most of the women with their shopping baskets had disappeared, and High Street was almost deserted now, deep gray shadows spreading across the sun-washed cobbles.

My father no longer taught at the school. He had given up his classes a year ago, on Doctor Crandall's advice. Father wasn't
ill
, of course, not really, but he had begun to lose weight, begun to grow tired, had developed a bad cough. Doctor Crandall told him he should take it easy. Father quit teaching and devoted all his time to the History. He still had his private income, a legacy left to him by an aunt who had died years ago, so we weren't strapped for money, but there were fewer new dresses for Solonge and Janine, less household money for Marie. She considered it a woeful hardship, grumbling more than ever, saying things would be much easier if we sold the cottage and moved to London and took a flat.

I sighed, not wanting to think of the situation at home. Eppie looked at me intently with narrowed eyes, her mouth pursed.

“You know, Angie,” she said, “you really aren't all
that
plain. I've been studyin' you, tryin' to figure it out.”

“Oh?”

“You have something. All the boys notice you. There's something about you that intrigues 'em. I'm not sure what it is.”

“My winning smile,” I suggested.

“If you weren't so cool and standoffish, you could have your pick of 'em.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Of course you're too tall,” she continued, “almost as tall as I am. Your cheekbones are too high, and your eyes are that peculiar shade of gray with just a touch of violet. You're too skinny and your legs are too long, but you've got glorious hair, so rich a brown, like gleaming chestnuts, so long and thick and glossy.”

“Glad there's something you like,” I said wryly.

“Your mouth's too wide, but it's so deep a pink, a de
lec
table mouth the boys say. You're not beautiful like Janine or Solonge, haven't got the coloring, haven't got the shape, but you're strikin', Angie.”

“I'm plain as a mud fence and you know it.”

“You just
think
you are. Me, I
know
I look like a giddy maypole, but I never let it keep me from havin' fun. Boys like all
kinds
of girls, and if you know how to flirt, know how to please 'em, they come flockin' around in droves even if you
do
have a long neck and hair like a haystack.”

“There are more important things in life,” I informed her.

“Like what?”

“Like—like making something of yourself. Like learning.”

Eppie raised her eyes heavenward and treated me to one of her exasperated sighs, clearly finding me beyond help. The only thing girls like Eppie needed to learn was how to attract boys, and she was already expert at that. She'd continue to play around and dispense favors with merry abandon and in a year or so, maybe less, she'd get into trouble and get married quickly and end up on a farm or in a tiny cottage with a loutish husband and a passel of kids and never
know
anything about the world out there. Or care. That was the sad part. I wanted more. I wanted to
do
something with my life, and me a female and plain to boot. It was ever so frustrating.

Eppie sat up straight and gave me a sharp nudge, suddenly atremble with excitement. Startled out of my reverie, I looked up, frowning. Eppie nudged me again and pointed. To the right of the square a road led into the village, circling the square before turning into High Street. A man on a powerfully built chestnut stallion was slowly approaching the square. The horse's sleek coat gleamed. The man in the saddle exuded virility and a casual, lazy confidence. Sunlight burnished his thick blond hair.

“It's him!” Eppie whispered. “It's Clinton Meredith!”

I had to admit that his appearance was a remarkable event indeed. The Merediths eschewed the village, almost never coming here, sending a servant if they required anything from one of the shops. Constantly gossiped about but rarely seen, the Merediths held themselves aloof. Seeing Clinton Meredith in the village was like seeing a Royal Prince consorting with the commoners. I hadn't laid eyes on him since that afternoon I had climbed over the wall and seen him wooing the beautiful Laura under the rose trellis, and though I was filled with curiosity about his sudden appearance, I refused to show it, assuming a bored, blase expression unlikely to fool anyone.

“I wonder what he's
doing
here?” Eppie exclaimed under her breath, too excited to speak in her normal voice.

“Who cares?” I said blithely.

“I'll bet he's on the prowl! I'll bet he got bored at the Hall and decided to come lookin' for a bit of tail!”

That was very likely, I thought. If all the stories about him were to be believed, Clinton Meredith spent the majority of his time pursuing sexual conquests. When he wasn't prowling the gambling halls and drawing rooms in London, he was roaming the countryside on his stallion searching for a complaisant wench to assuage his appetite. Handsome as a god, imbued with potent masculine allure, he was rarely refused, rumor had it. Farm girls and the like considered it a privilege to service the dazzling heir, and women like Laura probably offered only token resistance, just enough to maintain a pretense, as she had. Clinton Meredith was one of the golden lads, rich and powerful, heir to a grand estate, spectacularly good-looking as well.

“He's just back from London,” Eppie confided breathlessly. “There was a frightful scandal—something to do with an older woman, married to a cousin of the King! Janie Yarbro's mother knows the sister of the cook at Greystone Hall and she gets
all
the gossip. Came home in disgrace, he did, just two weeks ago. They say the woman tried to
kill
herself, swallowed a whole bottle of some kind-a drug she'd got from an apothecary. I wonder if—Oh, Angie, he's goin' to stop!”

The man on horseback pulled on the reins and slowed the stallion to a walk, eyeing us with lazy interest. He circled the square, rode past the cannon, was momentarily obscured by the frothy blossoms of the apple tree, and then he came to a halt on the road, directly in front of the bench, only a few yards of grass separating us. Eppie caught her breath and flushed a bright pink, her eyes as wide as saucers, it seemed, and though I felt my pulses racing I somehow managed to maintain my bored expression.

“What are you girls doing?” he asked in that honeyed, melodious voice I still remembered so well.

Neither of us replied. Eppie couldn't have uttered a word if her life depended on it, and I didn't deign to speak. Clinton Meredith grinned, his full pink mouth curving up at one corner. Beneath the heavy, drooping lids his gray eyes were filled with amusement … and idle speculation as well. He sat casually in the saddle, one hand holding the reins loosely, the other resting on his thigh. He wore shiny brown knee boots, snug tan breeches and a tan frock coat with deep-brown velvet lapels and cuffs. The coat was unbuttoned, revealing a pale-golden satin waistcoat embroidered with brown and tan fleurs-de-lis. Though elegant, the clothes looked as though he had been wearing them a couple of days, and his tan silk neckcloth was definitely rumpled. Somehow this made him all the more attractive, more human. I found it hard to believe a man could be so beautiful, and that he was, as beautiful as any painting and virile as a ram.